


The Streets Are Listening

by Alfreds_Mustache



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Under the Red Hood, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Batkids Age Reversal, Blackmail, Blood and Violence, Bribery, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Child Abuse, Dick Grayson is Not Robin, Dick Grayson-centric, Dog Fighting, Drugs, Harm to Children, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd-centric, Jason basically adopts Dick, Major Character Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, No editing we die like mne, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Jason Todd, Protective Stephanie Brown, Sibling Bonding, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Street Rats, Tim Drake is Caroline Hill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alfreds_Mustache/pseuds/Alfreds_Mustache
Summary: Red Hood is in the midst of bringing down Gotham's newest, most powerful crime organization--the Luciano family. While following a valuable lead, he finds a thirteen-year-old kid covered in blood and passed out in an alleyway.With unexpected help from this inner-city street rat named "Dick", Jason begins to uncover the disturbing lengths at which the Lucianos will go to get what they want... and, even more unexpectedly, how Dick fits into their plans.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Dick Grayson
Comments: 68
Kudos: 286





	1. The Alleyway

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. All rights go to DC Comics. (The name 'Luciano' doesn't belong to me either.)
> 
> TW: blood, violence, language, child abuse, criminal activity.

He could remember yelling, and pain.

But he wasn’t sure how he ended up twelve blocks away from the apartment, in bare feet and his clothes soaked through with blood and rain.

It was in the moment that Dick realized this that he was suddenly acutely aware of the sharp pain stabbing into his back, legs, abdomen, and ribs with unbridled fury. Worse was the persistent, deep ache that made his head throb and pulse from his left temple, where he was sure a nasty bruise was already starting to form.

Really, his whole body hurt, and every step he took sent a shockwave of pain through his nervous system. How had he made it this far on foot? He honestly didn’t have a clue, and was way too exhausted to actually question anything at this point. It had probably been a mix of desperation and adrenaline, both things that he was all too familiar with.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he suspected that he’d been able to walk this far--with possibly life-threatening injuries, lacerations, bruising--for the same reason that a mother can lift a car if her child is in danger. Well, a normal and loving mother who cares for her child’s health and wellbeing, at least.

Dick stumbled and fell to his knees as another eruption of pain spiked through him. His vision swam and blackness threatened to overtake his senses.

He thinks he might have just retched on the sidewalk, but isn’t entirely sure because it felt like his brain was drowning in fog and his limbs were caught in fiery-hot molasses. The only indication of his stomach emptying it’s contents was the sudden, reflexive arching of his back, the sting of acid against his raw throat, and the distant taste of bile on his tongue.

His thoughts were a cotton haze and, distantly, he knew he should have probably been more worried about the fact that his fingers and toes were going numb.

Despite all this, he somehow, through the fog of his clouded thoughts, caught a glimpse of the mouth of an alleyway, right in front of him.

_Thank god,_ he thought dimly, finding enough practical sense in himself between sensations of misery to realize that it would provide shelter from onlookers and a safe enough place to rest.

With the last of his energy, he crawled agonizingly on his hands and knees. Crawling sent new shocks of pain to his wrists and up his forearms, but he lacked the strength to do much else, let alone stand. He was hyper-aware of every little pebble, every crack in the pavement, every miniscule shard of beer bottle glass. It scraped and cut into his still-bleeding wounds, jabbed into his purpling bruises, jarred his beaten bones...

It was a slow, miserable process (which he thought was exceptionally cruel, considering his destination was only a few yards’ distance), but miraculously, he made it, and collapsed none-too-gently behind a dumpster. Thankfully, it was enough of an obstruction to hide his body from view, and anyone walking past the alleyway wouldn't be able to see him.

His broken body was trembling, and It took a moment to realize that he was crying— in pain, fear, or relief, he couldn’t tell. All three, if he had to guess, but he didn’t really want to think about the reason he was bleeding in a grimy alleyway. He wasn’t sure he had the strength or mental capacity to do so at the moment, anyway.

He leaned heavily against the brick wall, legs sprawled out in front of him. It hurt his lungs and ribs to breathe, but they burned for air all the same, leaving him gasping like a fish out of water. It was a pitiful, torturous sort of purgatory he found himself trapped in; he couldn’t take much more of this agony, and pleaded to whoever was listening for a reprieve.

At the moment, Dick wanted so badly to just slip into a deep sleep, anything to escape the hellfire that was currently wreaking havoc on his body. Oblivion and darkness sounded quite a bit more appealing than this. Against his better judgement—and ignoring his mind’s protests of not leaving himself vulnerable—he closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but the second he came to, he wanted immediately to go back to sleep. With groggy eyes and an unnatural amount of numbness setting into his limbs, he opened his eyes to a brawl happening in the middle of the alleyway, only a few yards away from his prone form.

He didn’t have anything left in him to move or protect himself, so it was all he could do to watch as a man in a red helmet and brown leather jacket punched it out with some guy wearing all black and—was that a ski mask?

A few swift punches to Ski-Mask’s face and he was sent flying. Dick flinched violently as the man’s unconscious body hit the ground right next to him, clattering loudly against a couple of trash can lids.

Unfortunately, the sudden movement was enough to dispel all of the detached numbness he’d been experiencing, replacing it with a wall of pain that slammed into him with enough force to nearly make him black out.

“Oh, shit-”

Through the spots in his vision, he could make out a figure coming toward him. As pain continued to pulse along every cell in his body, his hearing fazed in and out. His head felt like static, reality only coming through in little bursts.

He opened his eyes— when did he close them?— to find the man in the red helmet crouched in front of him.

“-ith me? Kid, ….-n you hear me?”

Dick opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled whine. _God, that’s embarrassing-_

His own thoughts were cut off with a fit of coughing that wracked his whole body. Something spilled down his chin and his mouth tasted overwhelmingly metallic. He grimaced, the awful taste sending a wave of nausea through his system.

The man was saying something, but Dick couldn’t focus, was too busy trying not to freak out as his body suddenly felt very far away. Something in his expression must’ve given his panic away, because the man’s movements turned desperate.

His vision tunneled as a spell of dizziness hit him, and he missed the man say something important because suddenly hands were on him and his bones were shifting and his head was spinning and the pain went from humming beneath his skin to jolting through his veins like a lightning strike with the force of a semi-truck. Right before he blacked out, he caught the tail end of something the man said.

“-ng tight, kiddo.”

He was unconscious within seconds.


	2. The Dave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason chases down his first real lead.
> 
> EDIT: forgot to mention.... there’s some pretty strong language in this chapter, violence, and a death threat. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> Apologies for any spelling mistakes, and for the fight scenes- which are kinda new to me ;-;

The streets were running rampant with the name “Luciano”, but no one—Batman and Co. included— knew who they were, what they looked like, where their base of operations was, or even what their M.O. in Gotham was.

It had taken Jason countless stakeouts and many long nights to gather the intel he needed just to pinpoint where one of their men was going to be stationed, and when to get the drop on him. The information this one man had alone would be invaluable in finally tracking the infamous  _ Luciano _ down.

His intel had panned out and the man was, as promised, stationed at the Gotham docks, overseeing an incoming shipment of unknown cargo. When Jason arrived there were at least a dozen men, all in whaling gear, unloading unmarked crates from a large whaling boat. It was easy to pinpoint the man he was looking for (wardrobe-wise, Jason was getting a serious ‘Matrix’ vibe from this guy); the thing that really singled him out was the balaclava and AK-47 in his hands.

Which told Jason two things: one, that whatever was in those crates was important- it was no doubt merchandise being smuggled in from somewhere else; drugs, probably. It was a smart ploy, Jason would give them that. The rank smell of fish innards and chum was more than enough to disguise the smell of any illegal drug they had on board, and acted as a deterrent to any civilian or official passing by, who would steer clear to avoid the smell.

Plus there weren’t any checkpoints or blockades on the open water, so smuggling it in by sea would provide smoother transition than on the road—where they’d risk getting pulled over by local police or the drugs seized as contraband. Civil forfeiture and all that jazz.

It was practically common knowledge at this point that the Gotham docks were, aside from actual fishing, used mainly for illegal trade deals. Especially at night. But that wasn’t really what Jason was here to scope out— he’d let law enforcement clean that up; nah, he was here for the guy.  _ Dave _ , Jason thinks he remembers is the guy’s name. He rolled his eyes just thinking about it.  _ Who gets into the crime business with a name like ‘Dave’? _

He waited for about forty-five, painstakingly-long minutes.

The crates were unloaded, and the whalers—who’d been generously paid in cash by Dave— were dispersing. There were a few stragglers, but Jason made sure to pick them off one at a time from the roof, without giving himself away.

Dave was by himself, taking stalk of the cargo and likely getting ready to radio in to his boss. Jason needed to get to him before he did that- if the line was open when Jason attacked, he risked Dave alerting his superiors of his presence and the mission would be compromised.

Silently, Hood dropped from the rooftop just as the guy walked by.

He came up behind him. “Hello, Dave,” he stepped out of the shadows, pistol drawn and already trained on him. “Might I have a word?”

No sooner had he spoken, than Dave whipped around, AK blazing and spitting out shells faster than Hood could jump out of the way.

_ Dave’s trigger-happy— good to know. _

He dove back into the shadows to dodge the array of pinging bullets. Not for the first time, Hood wondered if maybe he should’ve gone the sniper route.  _ But then I wouldn’t be able to interrogate the guy, _ the reasonable part of his brain argued.

He grunted as another stray bullet bit into his chest. Good thing he added the bullet-proof vest to his outfit (in the back of his mind he could hear a niggling little voice that sounded suspiciously like Oracle; he chose to ignore it in favor of aiming to disarm and disable Dave).

Now that he had some range, he ducked behind a stack of the unmarked crates, grateful that they seemed sturdy enough to shield him from the gunfire.

He waited a moment for the telltale pause that meant that Dave was reloading another magazine— annnnd…. _ Now. _

Hood dove to the side, rolled, and came up on his knees with his guns at the ready.

“Hey- drop the weapon!” He shouted, mechanical voice echoing against the walls of the warehouse behind them. “You and I need to have a chat!”

Unsurprisingly, Dave didn’t listen to him, choosing instead to turn tail and run, but not before tossing his AK-47 to the pavement. Hood cursed before holstering one of his pistols and giving chase

_ Why do they always run? _

*

The guy was quick, Hood would give him that.

He’d only lost him twice in some back alleyways— after which Hood had taken to the rooftops. Not even ten minutes in, they quickly found themselves on the edges of the city. None of Gotham was exactly “pleasant”, per se, but this end of town was one of the…  _ seedier _ parts.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Hood saw an opportunity to get the jump on him.

Not wasting any time, he dropped mid-grapple into the mouth of an alleyway so that he was coming up right behind Dave, effectively cutting off the only exit. Dave was trapped.

_ Got him. _

Dave scrambled as he realized that he’d run himself into a dead end, cursing loudly as he turned to face Hood. He was trapped, out of breath, and unarmed.

Jason smirked under his helmet and sauntered his way over, taking in Dave’s glowering form. He squared his shoulders and cracked his neck.

“So...Where’s Luciano,  _ Dave? _ ”

Dave continued to glower (which was undercut by the fact that he was still struggling to catch his breath). “I don’t… answer to you..  _ kid _ .”

“No shit, asshole.” And faster than he could blink, Hood surged forward, cracked his pistol across Dave’s face, and pinned him against the brick wall. His nose started to gush blood and was most definitely broken; he struggled against Hood’s grip with wild eyes.

“Lemme go!”

“Tell me what I want to know—  _ then _ we’ll talk.”

Dave spat a wad of blood in his face (helmet) and used the brief distraction to wrench himself free. He aimed a punch at Hood’s windpipe—which he dodged easily and returned in kind with a swift kick to his stomach.

Dave stumbled back and growled. Then he charged forward with the fury of an angered bull.

Jason used Dave’s momentum against him by dodging again at the last second and tripping him at the ankles with his foot, before finally jabbing a well-aimed knee to his groin as he went down.

This time Dave stayed down, but Hood wasn’t taking any chances; he was quick to pin him by kneeling right on his sternum, and jammed the pistol’s muzzle into the vulnerable underside of his jaw.

Weakly, Dave sputtered and raised his hands in surrender. He wheezed and struggled to swallow against the gun. “F…  _ Fine _ ..”

“Good,” Jason responded glibly. Then, “If you lie to me, I’ll blast your fuckin’ brains out. Got it?” For emphasis, he cocked the gun while keeping it flush with the other’s skin. It had the desired effect.

“O-okay, okay!  _ Jesus _ .”

“Now: where’s Luciano?”

“I don’t know-“

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,  _ prick _ .” He leaned forward and dug the gun further into Dave’s jaw.

“I dunno, I-I-I swear! There’s  _ three _ of ‘em— they switch off! F-F-Frankie’s the one ‘o sent me!”

“You still haven’t answered my question, and it’s starting to  _ piss me off. _ ”

“I don’t know! I don’t-  _ I swear to god _ \- they don’t tell us nothin’—we just got meetin’ points!”

“ _ Where? _ ”

“Th-the harbor an’ the c-c-clock tower! That’s all I know! P-please!”

“See? Was that so hard?” Hood moved his pistol away and got up, slowly just to make the man squirm. Then he stepped aside and feigned a glance upward as Dave scrambled to his feet and made to get away.

Before he could get a single step in, however, Hood reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, spun him around, and, with a powerful uppercut, knocked him out cold…. and straight into a couple of trash cans that were lined up against the alley wall.

_ Heh, right where he belongs- with the other trash. _

Jason stalked over to his unconscious perp, getting ready to tie him up and plant a tracer on him, but then—wait. He saw something.

_ What the fuck is that..? _ Jason moved closer. It couldn’t be- was that-?

  
“Oh  _ shit _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Dave was harmed in the making of this chapter.


	3. The Safehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason bites off more than he can chew, and calls an old family friend for help.
> 
> Ages:  
> Jason- 20  
> Dick- 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TW: blood, description of injuries, implied child abuse, swearing.

Jason wasn’t sure what feeling overcame him when he saw the bruised and bloodied boy slumped against a dumpster, in a puddle-strewn alley, at night, and in one of the seediest parts of town.

If he had to pinpoint it, it was probably something akin to aching familiarity. If he didn’t have a badass reputation to uphold, he might even categorize it as ‘empathy’.

He didn’t know this kid, but recognized him very clearly in his mind, in memories he’d repressed of his own childhood; seeing this kid was like looking into a mirror, at himself from ten years ago.

Maybe that’s what spurred him to take the kid to one of his nearby safehouses. It was closer and definitely more secure than the nearest hospital. That’s what he reasoned to himself, at least.

Besides, his safehouse had plenty of medical supplies (each of them did, and was also fully stocked with food and weaponry). Though, this kid looked pretty beaten up and worse-for-wear… Jason might have to call in Alfred’s or Leslie’s expertise, especially if there was any internal damage. He might even need surgery, definitely a couple of casts, a splint or brace…

_Shit_ , Jason began to question his decision. _Maybe I haven’t thought this through._

What the hell had happened to this kid? Had he been jumped? Jason wouldn’t put it past one of Gotham’s many street gangs to corner and beat up a kid who was on his own in the middle of the night. The criminals of Gorham were the scum of the earth, in his own opinion.

Jason had so many questions, but unfortunately he wasn’t getting any definitive answers until mystery-boy woke up. Which would be an indefinite amount of time—anywhere from within hours to days.

He sighed. _I need to make a phone call._

*  
  


Jason had made the kid comfortable on his couch. It was kind of ratty and very much stained, but that’s what he gets for trusting Roy with furniture.

He was currently pacing, still in his Red Hood suit, though he’d taken his off his helmet.

Leslie hadn’t been able to stop by—he'd called her the second he entered this safe house, but apparently she was in California for a physician’s conference or something. _Of all the times, Leslie._

Her clinic was still open, and her staff (nurses and secretary) were still available and prepared to treat anyone who walked in their doors, but that wasn’t quite what Jason needed right now.

So, after a heated phone argument with one of the RNs, he was patched through to Leslie’s emergency work cell.

“What’s the emergency, Stacy?”

“Um,“ Jason blinked, “Sorry, Les, it’s actually-“

“Jason? What did you do this time?”

Jason took a moment to appreciate the stern exasperation in Leslie’s voice. It was the same one she used every time she saw him, since he was a kid to this day. He wanted to smile, but remembered with a jolt why he was calling.

“Leslie, I need some help; this kid’s pretty beat up-“

“Kid?”

“Yeah, I found him,” he continued to pace and ran a hand through his hair. “There’s a lot of blood—like, a lot—and I-I don’t even know where to start.”

“Where- How did-?” She stuttered, before pausing and waving a hand dismissively. (At least, that’s what Jason imagined her doing.) “Never mind,” she continued, voice steady and straightforward, “Here’s what I need you to do…”

She asked him to do a full-body assessment on the boy, everything from checking his vital signs to pressing on his ribs, to shining a light in his eyes and making sure his pupils were dilating properly.

Leslie walked him through the bigger, more complicated things—like checking for fractures and breaks and dislocations.

(Jason didn’t usually have a problem dealing with these kinds of things when it came to his own body; the way he knew how to self-diagnose and treat his own internal injuries was by knowing how much a particular part of his body hurt, and then go from there. He didn’t know what to look for or how to spot those types of injuries from an outsider’s point of view, and that’s where Leslie’s expertise came in.)

Once he’d checked (and double-checked) everything, she walked him through basic first aid. Which he already knew, of course, but apparently patching up life-threatening wounds on an eleven-year-old wasn’t the same as patching up his own wounds. Go figure.

This safehouse in particular, along with food and weaponry, was fully stocked with emergency medical equipment. He’d made sure his most frequented safehouses had them mostly because medical supplies were a necessity in his line of work and nightly injuries were inevitable, but also because he was a proud son of a bitch and didn’t want to have to keep going to the Batcave because he was short on supplies. That had happened one too many times, and he didn’t want to have to rely on anybody else for his own survival.

Jason had more than enough material at his disposal to splint and wrap his fractured ankle and broken forearm. He also had a brace to put on the kid’s dislocated (now-relocated) knee, although it was slightly large on him due to it being Jason’s. The kid definitely had a few cracked ribs, but Jason didn’t want to risk wrapping them because then he risked inhibiting the kid’s breathing or— if he was wrong and they were actually _broken_ —puncturing a lung.

Anyway, with Leslie’s help and expert medical opinion, Jason had more-or-less patched the kid up by himself with little to no hitch. She even told him what over-the-counter medications were acceptable for a child in his condition to take, based on Jason’s own observations.

She made sure to chastise him for his usual em recklessness, and reminded him not-so-subtly that hospitals still existed. Jason felt sheepish and awkward at the end, but nonetheless thankful for her help.

“Thanks so much, Les.”

“Mhmm.”

“Seriously. Thank you.”

He could practically hear her eyes rolling. “You’d better be taking good care of yourself, young man.”

“Leslie-”

“I mean it, you need to remember to eat and get some sleep.”

“Les-”

“Goodbye, Jason.”

She hung up before he could get another word in. He huffed and shook his head; honestly, sometimes she gave Alfred a run for his money in the mother hen department.

He set his phone on the coffee table and got back to work. Leslie had helped walk him through the complicated stuff, and he was fairly confident he could deal with the rest; external injuries were much easier to handle, in his opinion.

He couldn’t do anything for the extensive bruising or welts that littered his face and back, but he could stitch up and bandage the gashes and abrasions along the kid’s abdomen, arms, and legs. Luckily, most of these were flesh wounds and minor cuts, but the exceptions were what worried Jason. Along with two major (and frankly pretty gruesome) injuries on the kid’s shoulder and calf, there were what looked to be animal bite marks of varying degrees of seriousness, all across his body.

Jason had seen a lot in his lifetime, but everything about this poor kid’s physical state unsettled and disturbed him on a new level.

Leslie has given him some guidance on what to watch out for in the next 24 hours—because she was fairly certain that with the mild concussion, blood loss, dehydration, and fatigue, that that was how long he’d be unconscious—at minimum.

The boy hadn’t woken up a single time throughout the entire process, which had worried Jason a little. But, he took note, he was still breathing, and his bleeding had slowed significantly, to the point of not soaking through his bandages every five minutes anymore. So, that was a plus.

It had taken almost four hours from start to finish, and Jason was exhausted. It had really taken a lot out of him, not only the physical aspect of it, but the stress of having to tend the extensive, honestly egregious wounds of a child who couldn’t be older than twelve (though, unconscious and pale and enveloped in a wool blanket that Jason had dug out of the closet, he looked more like a vulnerable ten-year-old).

And he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the grizzly incident that had landed him with injuries of this caliber and range. He didn’t like the first logical thought that came to mind when he put the pieces together.

It was then, as he sat back, took a look at the unconscious preteen on his couch, and realized just how young he was— that Jason was hit with a startling (but not unexpected) realization:

Some bastard had gone out of their way to brutally injure and maim a fucking _child_.

And just that thought alone was enough to make Jason seethe with anger, want to go find whoever did this and beat them to a bloody pulp, and give them a taste of their own medicine. It took immense amount of restraint to convince himself _not_ to do that, and reminded himself that he had decided to help this kid. Jason had taken upon himself the responsibility of making sure he was okay, so he was going to do that.

Besides, the kid didn’t deserve to wake up alone in some stranger’s apartment, and Jason would be damned if he wasn’t going to be by his side when he did wake up.

Because he knew _exactly_ what that felt like—hell, he was the fucking poster child for it—and how shitty one felt after the fact. So he’d stay here.

Gotham could wait a couple of nights to see his presence on the street again, and the Big Bad Bat always trod on his territory anyway.

That didn’t mean, however, that Jason wouldn’t make himself a snack. So, with another glance at the kid’s small, sleeping form, he got up to stress-cook some pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe <3


	4. The Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from Bad, to Good, to Worse in the span of a few hours.
> 
> TW: child abuse, blood & violence, mentioned/implied animal cruelty, panic attack, strong language. Also at one point Dick thinks he’s been kidnapped by a pervert (he hasn’t been, it’s Jason) and feels reasonably freaked out so... there’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> Here’s an extra long chapter. Take care of yourselves! <3

_When Dick came to, he was chained to a metal pole in the middle of what looked to be a dusty, makeshift arena. A spotlight blinded him from above, and cast the rest of his surroundings into darkness._

_Dick had been here a number of times, but he’d never seen it at this angle. Usually he was keeping track of bets or sweeping the outer ring, even on a few horrifying occasions he was in charge of cleaning up the carnage afterward. He shuddered just thinking about it, which did nothing to help his confidence for how this was going to go._

_Not in his favor, that was for sure._

_If there was one thing he’d learned from his other times here: the people that attended these things were almost always as crazed and rabid as the dogs in the ring._

_He used to like spotlights, lived for them once upon a time, and craved the attention they brought to himself. The crowds and cheers were what made being in the spotlight all the more thrilling —he’d found it gratifying to know that someone was watching him perform amazing tricks that they, the audience, would never dare do._

_That had all changed the moment he was ripped away from the circus. He quickly learned that attention in Gotham was never a good thing; attention brought you nothing but trouble. Attention was what got his parents killed, him thrown into juvie, ‘taken in’ by Bobby, and employed by the Lucianos..._

_He couldn’t stand crowds anymore, either. It was just another thing that he loved that the city had taken from him, twisted, and shoved right back at him. Crowds meant that, if caught or noticed, there were that many more eyes to be witness to his failures, his embarrassment, struggles, heartache, loneliness. The more eyes that were on him at any given time, the more uncomfortable and self-conscious he felt, and made something under his skin itch and crawl._

_Right now the catcalls and jeers and boisterous bidding was an unwelcome presence to Dick, he hated it the second he realized that it was all geared toward him. Or, rather (he noticed as he finally took stock of his situation, tied to a pole in the middle of a lit ring, barking and howling coming through over the shouting and cigar smoke and cash), what was about to happen_ to _him._

_Somewhere beneath the disparaging yells he could make out the rumbling sound of bloodthirsty dogs (when they came out they were anything but ‘dogs’--mutts or hounds, definitely, but not dogs. Dogs were cuddly, man’s best friend, obedient, soft. These were hulks of muscle, foaming at the mouth, their eyes smouldering with something feral and sinister (but in the light of the ring, it looked like nothing less than hellfire)... It was the same look one might see in the eyes of a desperate man, someone who’d resort to just about anything if it got him even a scrap of a meal._

_It was the type of unquenchable hunger that one would obligingly kill over._

_His throat was too dry to call out to anyone, for help, though he was certain that no one would listen or answer. His head was pounding something fierce, and the light hurt his eyes so much that he was forced to squint or close them completely (which he refrained from; he needed to see what was coming, to prepare himself for whatever came next). His limbs ached and begged for rest, and his wrists were already starting to chafe where the rope that tied them together was._

_It was hard to breath with all the dust and dirt and cigar fumes filling up the unfiltered room, something that wasn’t made any easier on him by the tight leather collar—which was what chained him to the post, he realized—around his neck._

_The tiredness that had set into his aching limbs and numbed his rambling thoughts didn’t last forever, though, because the second he heard the latch of the iron gate open, a spike of adrenaline shot through his veins._

_There was only one dog being led in—he recalled hearing from Bobby at some point that if two dogs were put into the ring at the same time, they’d tear each other to shreds on sight, as they were trained to do._

_Despite the fact that it was only Dick in the ring, and not a fellow bloodthirsty mutt, it knew what it was supposed to do; this was, after all, how champion dogs were trained—by being commanded to mercilessly attack whatever prey (usually a poor, unfortunate animal like a cat or rabbit, sometimes even a smaller dog) was chained up in front of it._

_And right now, that prey was Dick._

_He could hear the feral beast’s snapping maw even from the other side of the arena, could hear its haunches gearing back and scrabbling against the ground and pulling against its leash in anticipation. It’s hungry, rumbling growls made its intentions clear: it was out for blood._

_Dick wasn’t sure when exactly the dog was let loose—it all happened so fast, in just the blink of an eye— but he sure as hell felt the second it attacked. Every bite, tear, rip, claw, and scratch— he felt it all, was painfully aware of every little thing. It tore off chunks of skin and sent his blood spattering to the ground. (The ground around him was flecked with his spilled blood, wet and hot and fresh.) He was honestly (pleasantly) surprised that it didn’t rip his throat out or bite a finger off._

_He couldn’t help the tortured screams that escaped his mouth every time the dog locked its jaws around one of his legs, shoulders, or forearms, and sunk its teeth in so far and tight that no amount of shaking could get it to stop. Not that he could move very much right now anyway._

_Blood loss and pain overwhelmed him, choked and suffocated him until he couldn’t breath, see, hear, or—thankfully— feel._

_It was only a matter of time before he was rendered unconscious._

*

Dick awoke gasping for breath, which turned out to be a difficult and painful task when you’ve just gotten the worst beat down of your life. He could still feel the phantom jaws clamping down on his skin, and it _hurt_.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shoo away the memories lingering from the event, that his brain had just thoughtfully recounted for him in the form of a nightmare.

He shifted, not yet daring to open his eyes. When had he fallen asleep, again? He could’ve sworn… there was an alleyway. He passed out in an alleyway… he was drawing a total blank on the rest. He couldn’t remember anything after collapsing behind a.. a dumpster, was it? Yeah, that sounded right. After that, however, he had absolutely no clue.

He must still be in the alley. It was a miracle, then, that nobody had killed him in his sleep. He’d broken the number one rule on the streets by leaving himself vulnerable. Also, he was fairly certain that he’d been bleeding pretty heavily—he remembered the taste of iron on his tongue, blood on his lips—so how the _fuck_ was he still alive? (Not that he was complaining.) An alarmingly-close voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Dick’s eyes snapped open and, against his better judgement (and his body’s protests), he shot up and scrambled backward, pressing his back hard against the back of the couch.

_Couch?_

Immediately, he regretted the action- his ribs and backside screamed, white spots exploded across his vision, and blood rushed past his ears so violently that he couldn’t hear if he’d screamed or not.

All in all, everything was terrible, he greatly regretted his every decision that had landed him right in this moment, and- _oh my god I’m going to die, I’m dying, holy shit, oh my god, fuck-_

“Whoa, hey- easy, kiddo!”

He startled as a hand touched his lesser-injured shoulder, and found himself helpless to stop whoever it was from easing him down gently against some cushy pillows.

He was so confused and his heart was still thumping wildly against his ribcage, his breathing having picked up painfully in his panic. His feelings of alarm and (would-be) adrenaline was undercut by the fact that he was still struggling to get air into his lungs and not pass out.

He struggled best he could against the weight of their hand, but it was no use. Still gasping wildly as pain wracked through him, Dick’s vision cleared enough for him to get a glimpse at his surroundings—and at the person by his side—although the world still spun in his eyes.

“Wh-who-?” He managed to get out between breaths, still very much on edge (or as much on edge as he could be while in his current state.

“We’ll talk later; right now you need to get some more rest.”

Try though he might, Dick didn’t have the energy to protest- and he did try, but suddenly his body wouldn’t cooperate, mouth couldn’t find the words, as he altogether stopped working.

He was feeling scared and vulnerable and weak— and hurt and so very _tired…_

His vision swam and doubled and he wasn’t sure when his eyelids had closed but now the world was distant and dark…

And before he knew it he was spiraling down, down, down into the alluring abyss of unconsciousness once again.

This time he did not dream.

*

When he next awoke, it was to the smell of a freshly cooked meal. His stomach rumbled before he even opened his eyes.

“Here. Eat this,” a warm plate was thrust into his hands. He stared at it confused, but couldn’t help himself from drooling. It looked tantalizingly good; warm pancakes topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

Suddenly remembering that he wasn’t alone, he looked up at the stranger, who was now standing in the kitchen, apparently doing the dishes. Dick’s heart rate spiked, and he set the food down as quietly as he could on the coffee table, suddenly not very hungry. This was a trap, it had to be.

What kind of sick pervert had kidnapped him off the streets and taken him to their home? Who did that to a kid if they didn’t have something to gain from it. And… wait. His clothes were different. Had this man undressed him? _Oh fuck- no,_ Dick couldn’t handle the implications of that. _Nuh-uh, nope._

Oh god, what had he gotten himself into? This is what he got for leaving himself vulnerable and out in the open…His breathing picked up and his head spun.

“Yo, kid,” the man hollered over the sound of rushing water, and Dick nearly jumped out of his skin. “You okay?”

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself as though it alone would protect him from whatever came next, and sunk lower behind the cushions so the man was out of view.

Suddenly, the man was in front of him, crouching down and looking… concerned? _No,_ Dick thought. _That can’t be right._

“Kid, you need to breathe or you’ll pass out again.”

What? Oh, shit, he didn’t even realize he’d started hyperventilating, and the black dots dancing across his vision became very apparent. He couldn’t breathe, _Why can’t I breathe?_

It was like his body had simply forgotten how to take in air, and it was scaring him; he couldn’t control his breathing pattern, and was incapable of slowing it down.

“Do it with me, okay?” The man instructed, and Dick couldn’t help but turn his attention to him. “Deep breath in- one, two three… and out through your mouth…”

Dick copied him, his breaths shaky but somehow better with someone else doing it with him.

“Again. In through your nose- two, three…” the man continued to demonstrate, “and out…”

They went through this a few more times before Dick felt confident and calm enough to breathe regularly and on his own. Exhausted and feeling slightly less on edge, he studied the man before him.

He had a stripe of white in his otherwise black hair, pale, scarred skin (that alone kindled something in his chest; scars were something he could relate to), and a red mask that obstructed his eyes from view.

He also had an air about him that made Dick think that he was prepared for anything to happen at any given moment. He reminded Dick of a soldier, always on guard, looking over his shoulder; just as ready to stop a fight as he was ready to start one. Overall, he was significantly less intimidating up close, though Dick still didn’t exactly trust the guy; he was a stranger, after all.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Dick nodded, sheepish and quiet. “Thanks.”

The man smiled, and Dick finally noticed what he was wearing: a brown leather jacket, lots of padding and straps, a dark undergarment with a red emblem on the chest, and—on the table—a red helmet. Something clicked in the back of his mind, and his eyes widened.

“Wait, you’re-“

“Red Hood?” A smirk, “I know.”

“-the guy from the alley.” Dick finished, before registering what had just been said.

_Actually… that makes a lot of sense._ He felt kind of stupid. “Also, yeah, you’re-uh, Red Hood. Obviously,” he corrected himself, dazed.

Red Hood laughed, and Dick couldn’t believe it. He was talking to _the_ Red Hood, sitting on _the_ Red Hood’s couch, (not) eating _the_ Red Hood’s food.

Slowly, he looked from the plate to the vigilante and back to the plate again. He didn’t know why, but this pancake thing was the most bizarre aspect of this entire situation. Something about knowing that the gruff I-kill-pedophiles-in-my-free-time, gun-wielding, nighttime vigilante Red Hood could cook pancakes…. Well. It humanized him, brought him down to Dick’s level, made it easier for Dick to see him as a real person, and not just some badass superhero-type-legend.

“Done staring?”

Dick snapped out of his reverie and blushed. “I-um, I don’t- um-”

“Relax,” another laugh. Then, “What can I call you, kid?”

“Um. Dick.”

Hood raised a brow but said nothing. Dick couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“I’ve heard all the jokes, believe me. It’s short for Richard...if you’re wondering.”

The other regarded him with something like curiosity. “I wasn’t, but thanks, I guess.”

“Asshole,” Dick snorted, and then realized what he’d just said and to whom. “Shit-I didn’t mean- sorry! It just- it slipped out...”

“Christ, Dick, calm down.” He grinned wickedly, but something about it was underlyingly comforting, and Dick relaxed. He couldn’t stop the grin that overtook his face when he registered that Hood had just used his name.

He was a little disappointed, though (and he couldn’t fathom _why_ ), when Hood got up, said “Eat, you haven’t had anything in 24 hours,” and left.

The disappointment didn’t last long, though, because as soon as Hood had mentioned it, Dick realized that he was, in fact, very hungry.

*

He wasn’t sure when Hood returned to the living room, but it was after Dick had finished off his plate. When he came back he was wearing a green t-shirt under an unzipped navy hoodie, and a pair of plain blue jeans. He kept the red domino mask on.

The new clothes made Red Hood look at least ten years younger, like a freshman in college instead of a hardened gang leader, and that fact was a whole new concept for his brain to wrap around.

He must have caught Dick staring, because he said, “I haven’t changed in, like, two days.”

After a moment of awkward silence in which Dick took all of this in and Red Hood waited not-so-nonchalantly ( _chalantly..?_ ), he cleared his throat and finally spoke.

“So…” Dick chewed his lip, trying to remember what he wanted to say. “How, uh…how long was I out?”

The older seemed to think for a moment. “Almost 26 hours,” his gaze swept over Dick’s reclined figure as though searching for or analyzing something. “But that’s only counting from when I found you. You looked like you’d been unconscious for at least another hour before that.”

  
And Dick wasn’t remotely surprised. Bobby’s punishment had been extraordinarily harsh; if anything, Dick was surprised that he hadn’t slept for longer.

_Bobby_ . The realization caught in his throat and he choked. “Sh- _Shit!_ ”

Red Hood was immediately on high alert, “What? What’s wrong?” He swooped in and crouched before him, and Dick would have really been touched at the fact that someone cared about him, if it weren’t for the fact that he was mentally freaking the fuck out.

“I’m fine,” he coughed and batted Hood’s hands (and worry) away. “I just remembered my d- _guardian_ ,” he made to get up and looked Hood in the eye (domino mask) as if daring him to try and stop Dick from doing just that.

Injuries and doting be damned, he needed to get back home as soon as humanly possible. And preferably before Bobby, his technically foster-father, noticed just how long he’d been gone.

Unfortunately, Hood wasn’t taking the hint (or he was just outright ignoring it), and he stayed firm, hovering by Dick’s side as though he wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. “What are you talking about? You shouldn’t-“

“Would you let me get up already?” He didn’t mean to snap, but he was internally panicking.

Hood looked at him incredulously, like Dick had grown a second head. “Calm down, kid- I’m just trying to help.”

Dick clenched his jaw. “Thank you, really, but _I’m fine.”_

“Would you just sit your ass back down? _You’re injured_.” Wow, seriously? This guy didn’t even _know_ him and now he was trying to tell Dick what was in his best interest like he had any say in his life before this point.

“It’s nothing I’m not used to and nothing I can’t handle on my own.” _Do I seriously have to spell it out?_

“Obviously not, because I found you half dead in an alleyway,” Red Hood crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t have survived the night if I hadn’t treated your wounds.”

It was a challenge, Dick could tell. Hood wasn’t going to stop him physically from leaving, so he was trying to stop him with his words. This was getting downright insulting.

Dick was honestly more than done with this guy’s bullshit. He’d been fooled before by people he thought had his best interests at heart, only for them to turn around a second later to stab him in the back. People were never just ‘nice’—not if they couldn’t get something out of it. It was a simple fact, one that most people on the streets early on learned the hard way.

“Well, good for you. Is that why you did it, just to feel good about yourself?”

“No!” The man all but growled, “I saw someone who needed help, so I helped. That’s what h- _people_ like me _do_.”

Dick was practically seething at this point; why couldn’t this guy just get it? Get off his back and his high horse and _let him leave._ He didn’t own him, had no right to keep him locked up in wherever-the-fuck this was. (Dick couldn’t stop a little voice in the back of his head from adding, _That’s Bobby’s job._ )

“Great to know I’m somebody’s pity-project, thanks,” his voice was oozing with sarcasm, “I don’t need you or your help to survive. I’ve been fine without it my whole life, I don’t need it now.” _I don’t need anyone._

Honestly, it was his own fault for not seeing this coming.

“Fine!” Hood threw his hands up in exasperation. “Jesus, this is what I get for trying to do the _right fucking thing_ for once?”

“Eat shit,” Dick hissed between his teeth, already storming past him to the window. He wasn’t going to wait around to hear whatever excuse or comeback Hood had up his sleeve.In the back of his mind he thanked god that the window was already open; he wasn’t sure his ribs and shoulder could take that kind of strain.

His joints and muscles and bones were screaming just from having to duck onto the fire-escape, so it was slow-going for him from there, but he was determined. Sure, he wanted to get away from that place as soon and fast as humanly possible, but he was already pushing his limits by not laying down and resting his aching body. Plus, one glance upward as he descended the stairs told him that Red Hood wasn’t following him. Good.

He didn’t look back.

*

Jason watched the brat go, trying not to wince in sympathy every time he misstepped and had to catch himself painfully on the railing. The kid was determined, and Jason knew that nothing he said to him would sway his suspicion.

There was nothing he could do for a kid who wouldn’t even listen to him, who wouldn’t accept help. It was a waste of time and resources to keep a watch on him, and it wasn’t like he was the only kid on the street (or otherwise) who had problems at home. If that’s what it was. The mention had been so brief and Dick’s reaction so desperate, that was the logical conclusion for Jason to draw from the situation.

  
He really wanted to help the kid, but how could he go about that if he wouldn’t even let Jason _try_ to help? Whatever, Jason had done what he could; he’d done a good deed, helped a fellow street rat out, got him (relatively) back on his feet, and maybe even inspired him a little.

(Or maybe he’d scared him, coerced him, pissed him off, and chased him away. Jason was too proud and angry to admit it at the moment, but he knew that he could have handled the situation way better than he had. Particularly by not rising to the bate of an injured, panicked preteen.)

The kid had just proved that he really didn’t need Jason, that he could, in fact, take care of himself.

So then why did he feel a twinge of regret (shame, guilt) as the little twerp rounded the corner and limped out of view?

Jason turned away from the window and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had work to make up; he’d already wasted two-and-a-half days worrying about a stubborn (scared), ungrateful (defensive), and annoying (curious) little kid.

He had business to attend to, and a lead that was waiting to be followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any spelling errors... I worked real hard on this one, so I hope it all makes sense. Thanks for reading! <3


	5. The Deli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boring day job, a familiar face, and a little bit of backstory.
> 
> SIDE NOTE: I refer to the shop in this as a "deli", but it's more like a convenience store with a meat counter.... the specifics don't really matter a whole lot to the story, but i wanted to let you guys know in case it gets confusing... ;-; <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TW: child abuse/neglect, implied animal cruelty, brief description of murder, gambling.

Bobby’s bloodsport arena was located in the Bowery, just bordering Crime Alley and the East End. Just to be in the heart of all that was more than enough to attract plenty of business. That’s not to say that it wasn’t all hush-hush, because it was— Bobby made sure of that, only giving the address and passcode to select few (or those who paid the best).

The man never trained any of the dogs, mostly just helped organize the matches and find new fighters. He’d been in the business years ago, so he was well acquainted and familiar with cruel techniques and conditions used by trainers to mold unbeatable killing machines.

As it turns out, young children are roughly the same size and take up about the same amount of space that a dog would. By the end of his first year under Bobby’s roof, Dick too found himself well-educated with first-hand experience on the ins and outs of the typical everyday life of the average champion dog. He certainly had the scars to prove it.

Luckily, and if there were a silver lining to all of this, it would be that Dick himself hadn’t been forced to partake in any of the dogfighting that happened downstairs. He had, however, been pigeonholed into participating in running Bobby’s  _ other _ business.

There had been a time when Dick would do just about anything for a warm meal and a bed to sleep on. Those days were behind him, but not far.

He wasn’t proud of the thing he’d let himself become after the death of his parents and abandonment of his circus family. Losing so much in such a short period of time was enough to break someone and hollow them out into a husk drifting along the air current of life. In his case though, he was more like the bones left over from a roasted mammal; cracked in half by the legal system and marrow slurped up by the inmates at the Juvenile Detention Center. By the end of the process he was little more than a measly pile of remnants, picked-clean and ready to be tossed into the garbage.

He tried to forget his time in there, daring only to remember how it started—being stripped naked on the spot without warning (if he’d been warned, he hadn’t understood), in front of the prying eyes of complete strangers—and how it ended—being handed over to a sweaty, heavyset, unfamiliar man whose name he’d later learn was “Bobby”.

Bobby owned a Deli, and had Dick manning the cash register and stocking the shelves only weeks after he’d taken him “home”. His first night there, Dick felt like a dog newly bought from a shelter, and it was painfully clear that it was entirely intentional.

The water and food bowls in his room. The dog bed laid out in the corner. The chain attached to the wall made him think that maybe he was just sharing the room with an actual animal.

This was not the case, as he unfortunately found out when night came; Bobby locked a leather collar on him and locked that to the chain. “So’s you don’t get any ideas,” Bobby had said. (Dick was too terrified at that point to even think about escaping, let alone actually going through with it.)

He did that every night before bed—and unlocked him every morning—until he was nine.

About a month after Dick turned ten, Bobby forced him to work full-time in the Deli. Sometimes he stocked shelves, other times he manned the cash register. The latter was rare and only ever happened when Bobby himself was drunk or nowhere to be found. Which Dick began to realize happened more than he’d originally thought or heeded.

By the time Dick was eleven, Bobby was really only ever home before and after Dick went to school (most likely to ensure that he wasn’t shirking his studies or his responsibilities to the business).

Dick was twelve when he discovered Bobby’s second business. If you could call it that. Really, it was an illegal dogfighting kennel behind the Deli—only accessible through a secret door hidden in the back of the freezer and with password identification.

He’d been sworn to secrecy, never to tell another living soul or else he’d be “cut up into pieces and fed to the dogs”. Apparently, everyone who came through to see it were told the exact same thing, although they actually chose to take part in the illegal bloodsport. Dick was just a kid with no leverage, no money, no way to protect himself, and no one to tell, so he wisely turned his cheek when it came to that business of Bobby’s, really not wanting to get involved in any way and not willing to discover first hand if he’d be true to his threats.

So, yeah. The deli was a front for dogfighting and probably all kinds of other illegal shit. They had lots of money coming in, and not just from the betting in the back or the store in the front; cash from the Lucianos themselves was funneled through and stored in here for some reason or another, as well as other local businesses. It was all supposed to be some kind of money-laundering scheme, and a successful one at that—they hadn’t gotten caught so far.

Dick didn’t know all the details, and he doubted Bobby knew any more than him. All Dick was aware of was that a man would stop in now and then (once every week or so) to drop off a large sum of cash— “investment money”, they always called it—and subsequently threatened to slit their throats while they slept if they ever breathed a word about it to anyone.

The first time that Bobby questioned the man, he’d been held at gunpoint a second later, until he swore up and down to the man that he’d play by their rules from now on.

And if that hadn’t been enough, one of Bobby’s top-paying customers (and esteemed, long-time member of the Kennel), was found dead the following morning, a single shot to the forehead silencing him in his sleep. The death alone had been enough to shake Bobby into submission out of fear, but the police’s report of the scene had chilled him and Dick both to the bone: while the shot had killed the man instantly, someone had broken in afterwards (undetected and without leaving a trace) just to slit his throat.

Since then, Bobby has been eagerly operating under the thumb of the Lucianos, accepting their orders and packages without question, remaining tight-lipped about any and all proceedings having to do with their name, and never,  _ never _ tampering with the merchandise.

And that’s how it went, for years, even when Dick came onto the scene. The first time he set foot in the shop Bobby sat him down and spoke to him bluntly, laid out the rules, and added his own threats of punishment atop the ones already stated by the Lucianos.

Dick complied and kept his head down, not wanting any part of it but doing what he could to not rouse suspicion or gain unwanted attention.

Bobby didn’t even have to explain it to him; Dick understood quite well what the risks were of not obeying someone powerful (who had the means and motivation to kill).

His parents’ murder had been a lesson, one that would stick with him for the rest of his life, however long that may be. You do what they tell you, no questions asked, or somebody  _ will _ get hurt. He was just glad that Bobby wasn’t as naive as Mr. Haley in that regard. Bobby understood the consequences and played by their rules, because there wasn’t really any way out—except death, of course.

Haley had been a foolish, ignorant man, if the death of two of his star performers was anything to go by.

Dick didn’t like Bobby by any means; the man was greedy, mean, and conceited, and pushed people around especially if he thought they were below him. He had a low sense of morals and would do just about anything (aside from double-crossing the Lucianos) to make a quick buck. But Dick couldn’t bring himself to hate him.

Not because he’d taken him in, but for the simple fact that he wasn’t Haley.

(Deep in his heart he knew the only reason for his hatred of Haley was a reflection, a projection of his hate of himself. Like Haley, he’d done nothing, had been helpless and ignorant in the face of Gotham’s crime-etiquette.)

Bobby was almost always absent from the shop, only there when Dick was at school, so Dick was forced to take up every other shift.

Oftentimes he worked behind the counter before and after school until closing time, and then he’d spend a good portion of the night restocking the shelves, cleaning up (sweeping, mopping, wiping down windows and countertops), and taking out the trash.

If he was lucky and Bobby didn’t come down at the end of the night to count the cash and assess Dick’s hard work, the Dick would sort and set aside all of the edible foodstuffs that were going to be thrown out. Then he’d package (and disguise) it all in fresh garbage bags, tie them to the back of his rusty bicycle, and drop them off at the homeless shelter just a few blocks away.

It wasn’t much, but he knew that suffering wasn’t limited to just himself, and that there were a lot of people out there (especially in this part of town) who had it worse than he did. So he’d do what he could, even if it was just giving them food that would’ve otherwise gone to waste.

Right now Dick was manning the cash register, though at this time in the evening the shop wasn’t particularly busy with customers. Well, with regular customers, that is.

Truth be told, Dick was also performing his other job as lookout. Starting at 5:00pm, his job split in two: ringing up customer purchases, and keeping a lookout for kennel-goers. He was the first line of defense, in a way. That being said, there was a general code of conduct, of unspoken  **Rules** that anyone gearing to get into the Kennel had to know and follow.

  * **Only established members were allowed into the Kennel behind the shop.**



He looked up as a tall man with slicked hair and a tailored suit walked up to the counter. Dick recognized him as ‘Gustav’, a regular at the Kennel and a favorite of Bobby’s, probably because he paid so well. He’d never said or done anything remotely unkind to Dick, and often expressed his respect for his hard work, which Dick took in kind (it was rare these days and with the crowds that passed through here that any of them were nice or even decent to Dick, so he’d take what he could get).

Gustav strode up and tossed a couple of packs of unshelled pistachios down onto the counter.

“ _ Zdravstvuyte _ [Hello], Richard.”

“Gustav,” Dick gave him a polite nod of acknowledgement and rang the items up. It was a hilariously casual process. “Your total is six dollars, thirty-eight cents.”

Gustav slid a hand into his inner breast pocket and brandished a smooth, leather wallet. He thumbed two twenties from the billfold and offered it out to him.

  * **Members had to purchase at least one item in the shop upfront—mostly to keep suspicions low, but it doubled as an admission of sorts.** (Bobby liked to tell people it was like buying popcorn and peanuts at a baseball game.)



“Keep change,” he said smoothly, staring directly into Dick’s eyes. Dick took them curiously then stuttered, realizing just how much cash was in his hands.

“No, I-I can’t take-”

Something tightened in the Russian’s jaw, and his eyes glinted in what Dick sincerely hoped was humor. “Twenty  _ dlya _ [for] you, twenty  _ dlya _ [for] Bobby.”

Twenty dollars?  _ Holy shit. _ “Are-are you sure..?”

“ _ Keep change, _ ” Gustav punctuated each word firmly, daring him to argue.

“O-okay,” Dick gulped nervously and nodded fervently. Then, mostly to himself, “Twenty for me, twenty for Bobby.”

  * **All transactions occur at the cash register** (almost always manned by Dick) **; during or immediately following the exchange, they must mention the password or phrase. It changed weekly and was only announced the day of, to prevent stragglers or non-members from sneaking in.**



He deposited one of the bills into the cash register and the other into his pocket. Later he would put the other into the register as well.

Gustav looked pleased at the action and grabbed his purchases from the counter. “You have any…” he glanced over his shoulder and leaned in, “soppressata?”

  * **If the correct password or phrase was spoken, Dick would then lead them to the freezer in the back, under the pretenses of guiding them “out back”.** (That way, if any customers in the shop noticed or questioned the kennel member’s sudden absence, Dick could just say he’d let them out the back exit.)



Dick couldn’t help but also flit his gaze around the shop before responding, “I think there’s some in the back. Follow me.”

*

When the little bell above the door rang at 8:03pm, Dick didn’t look up, fearing and dreading the next face he’d see. He’d had enough kennel-talk for today, thank you very much.

He busied himself with wiping the countertop down with a damp rag. He forced his eyes to focus solely on the shimmery circles left behind, forced himself to feel nothing but the round motion of his wrist as he worked his way down the countertop from left to right.

He jumped when someone cleared their throat just a few feet away. His head jerked up and he was met with a familiar face. “Dick!”

A young woman, probably twice his age (and definitely a few heads taller) was in front of him. Aside from her shock of blond hair, the most striking thing about her was her smile. It was small, but kind; it quirked to one side and met her eyes (which themselves looked weathered, but ever optimistic).

An infectious smile split across her face, one that made Dick grin right back at her. She was the only person he knew who had that effect on people. (His mother had been able to do that, too. Maybe that’s why he was so drawn to her in the first place.)

“Hey, Steph.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages:  
> Stephanie - 26  
> Dick - 13
> 
> I wrote 3 separate versions of this chapter, each with a different plot twist & location... this is the one that fit the best with the story. Let me know what you thought, I love feedback!! Stay safe <3


	6. The Mini-Marshmallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie listens, Dick makes a decision, and Cass makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TW: Implied/referenced child abuse & neglect, brief description of injury/wounds

“Hey, Steph,” he grinned and leaned his elbows on the counter. Surreptitiously, he tried hiding his prominent arm injuries behind the counter.

Through the years, Stephanie had become somewhat of a confidant. Seriously, Steph was the best; whether or not she was aware of it, she was his lifeline. Nobody else in his life—not since his parents, at least—had treated him with such kindness, generosity, and respect. It had been that way since their very first meeting, almost three years ago now.

Their friendly acquaintance-ship had taken to a new level, she had quickly adopted the role of a scrupulous/doting aunt— which was surprisingly easy for Dick to accept. He and Steph had connected in a way; she was easy to talk to, and fun to be around.

At first she’d just been another regular at the deli, coming in once or twice a week. An unspoken bond had formed between the two of them one day, when she walked in on Bobby grabbing his arm particularly roughly, sneering at him. Stephanie had taken this in—along with the poorly-concealed bruising on his cheek and arms—and put the pieces together in her head before Dick could even try to come up with excuses.

They never spoke about it; partly because they didn’t want to risk Bobby overhearing, but also because nothing really needed to be said. Steph was someone he could rely on and confide in, and that’s all that mattered.

Her gaze narrowed in on all of the cuts and bruises that weren’t hidden behind bandages. “Oh my god, Dick…”

Immediately, she went into Mother Hen mode, taking his face in her hands with the aggressive care of a grandmother at a reunion. The corners of her lips quirked downward, and a crease formed between her brows.

She brushed his hair away from his forehead with one hand and tilted his chin under the fluorescent lighting with the other, examining his injuries with gentle fingers. He averted his gaze, but winced as she accidentally pressed down on a bruise. Something like sadness crept into her eyes, and Dick couldn’t help but feel guilty that he was the one to put it there. When she spoke next, her voice was as soft as her touch.

“What did you get yourself into this time, Dickie?”

She let go, and Dick couldn’t help the disappointment that formed in his stomach when she did. He swallowed and looked down. He didn’t deserve her kindness.

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” he chuckled half-heartedly. “Besides,” he picked at a bandaid on his elbow, “it’s kind of… a long story.” And  _ boy  _ was that a stretch.

Steph leaned forward and studied him again with that all-knowing gaze of hers; he didn’t need to look at her to know that she was staring straight into his soul. He worked his jaw, biting back the urge to spill the entire experience—from his stupid mistake to the one-sided dogfight to his encounter with Red Hood—to her. He would tell her, just not now. Not here.

Bobby didn’t like or care for him in any way, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t pay attention, so Dick had to be careful, pick his moments when he knew his guardian was least likely to notice him doing something contrary to his word.

She must’ve recognized something in his expression, in the way he was holding himself, or the unintentional waver in his voice… Something had obviously happened; something was different this time; something so momentous it was setting Dick on edge days later. He was certain he looked dead on his feet, and felt about ready to topple over just thinking about everything that’d happened within the past week.

Sensing his plight and confliction, she took his fidgeting hands in her own and gave him a pointed look that he’d become well acquainted with over the years. Any communication that didn’t require spoken words were less likely to be overheard and intervened by Bobby. At this point in their friendship, they could communicate to the other with just a look. And the one she was giving him right now said:

_ We’ll talk later; meet at my place when you can. _

Relieved, Dick nodded. He could wait.

*

Two days later, Dick finally had an excuse to leave the apartment and escape Bobby’s watchful eye, and it hadn’t even been his idea.

The stench of hair mousse and shoe polish was fragrant enough to make Dick feel light headed.

Bobby was in the kitchen, hunched over the sink with the water running. Every few seconds he’d scoop his thick fingers into an open tin of black goop that was sitting on the counter. With the other hand, he pulled a comb through his thinning, now-greasy hair. The color was a few shades darker than his actual hair color, so the effect when applied (and applied so heavily) was hilarious. There was a stripe or two of grey in the back where he couldn’t reach or see, and little patches of dark brown staining on the back of his neck and behind his ears.

If Dick were to compare it to anything, he’d say it bore a striking resemblance to a gorilla playing around in its own shit. (Dick would snort in amusement if doing so wouldn't get those meaty gorilla hands wrapped around his throat.)

“You’re gonna be sleeping outside tonight, brat.”

“Okay.” He didn’t ask why. Bobby didn’t take kindly to questions. He thought of all the times he’d had his head bashed in for that. It was easier to just say what the man wanted to hear, and then do whatever he wanted (usually the exact opposite) as soon as Bobby’s back was turned.

“I got a potential  _ business _ partner coming over, so clear out before eight.”

Dick knew what that meant, what Bobby and the other person would be doing, but he didn’t want to imagine it. Not wanting any further details, he agreed before quickly and quietly retreating to his bedroom.

One glance at the alarm clock on his floor told him It was already 7:48. He sighed and rolled his eyes.  _ Might as well clear out now, just to be safe. _

He packed a bag—a small wad of cash, a rusty pocket knife (lucky find on the sidewalk), and a cracked flip-phone he’d bought for himself last April—and threw on a dark green hoodie. He didn’t plan on staying in the apartment any longer than he had to.

He was going to be gone all night, and now Bobby wouldn’t question his absence. The man’d be too busy shagging his “potential business partner”. Dick made a face and shuddered at the thought.

Now, he had a friend he needed to talk to.

*

“Come in, come in,” Stephanie ushered Dick inside and locked the door behind him. She gave him a quick hug, being mindful of his injuries. Still though, the added pressure on his ribs didn’t feel great and he winced. Steph pulled back immediately.

“How much of you did he get?” she asked incredulously, giving him another protective once-over.

“We should probably sit down,” he rubbed the back of his neck, having the decency to look abashed. “There’s… a  _ lot _ .”

“Yes--sit, make yourself comfortable.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

He toed his shoes off so he wouldn’t get any dirt on the carpet, and plopped down in the armchair beside the sofa. He noticed a small ceramic bowl filled to the brim with mini-marshmallows, sitting on the glass coffee table. He squinted at it, trying to decipher its meaning. Was it an aesthetic choice? Was he supposed to take from it and eat them like candy or mints?

_ I’ve gotta be missing something here. _

Steph brought out two mugs, steam curling off the tops in little wisps. “Cass made some hot cocoa,” she held one out to him and gestured to the bowl. “She also put marshmallows out when I told her you’d be coming over.”

_ Ah, well that explains that. _ “Thank you.” He took the mug eagerly but with care, making sure not to spill any on the furniture (or his lap), and then dropped a small handful of marshmallows into it.

One ginger sip later had him sucking in a breath as the cocoa burned his tongue. “ _ Fuck! _ ”

“Right! Sorry,” Steph laughed. “Careful, it’s pretty hot.”

Dick set the mug on the table; he’d return to it in a couple of minutes when it’d cooled down a bit.

A door creaked behind him and he turned, relaxing when he caught sight of Cass-- Stephanie’s flatmate-- poking her head out the bedroom door. She smiled at him. “Hey, Dick. Marshmallows?” she prodded, already knowing his answer.

“Yep,” he returned her smile with a grateful one of his own. “Thank you.”

He felt cozy and warm, well taken care of. He loved coming over to their place, it always made him feel good. Wanted, special. They were fun and kind and ridiculous, and he loved them for it.

He said none of this out loud, but it must’ve shown on his face because her eyes softened. Cass was always good at reading people, and always seemed to know what he was thinking no matter how hard he tried to hide it. He blushed, glad that she could somehow sense his gratitude.

She gave a quick, fond glance at Steph over his shoulder. Something silent passed between them, so fast Dick almost missed it, and then the moment was gone.

Cass turned to him again briefly and waved. “See you, shorty,” and she ducked back into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her. Dick tutted at the nickname, pretending to be offended, and tried not to grin too hard.

“Have fun studying!” Steph called out, bringing Dick’s attention back to her. Cass’s sarcastic “Yeah, right” was muffled by the door, and the blonde shook her head before turning back to Dick with interest.

“Okay,” she took a sip of cocoa, holding the mug with both hands to keep warm. “I want all the details-- don’t leave anything out.”

He settled into the chair cushions and wiped away the remnants of a cocoa-mustache with his sleeve. This was going to be awhile.

*

He left out the part that had gotten him into the whole mess in the first place, skipping straight to the punishment and the events thereafter involving Red Hood. If Steph noticed this fact she didn’t mention it, for which he was relieved. He wasn’t quite ready to share that with her yet.

She was appalled, to say the least. He gave her vague details, deciding to forego the in-depth descriptions of his flesh being torn from his body… he had a feeling that might make her vomit, and left him feeling more than a little queasy just thinking about it. As usual, she was pissed as fuck at his so-called caretaker, looking like she wanted nothing more than to take Dick in her arms and never let him go.

Telling her about the whole Red Hood debacle actually made him feel quite a bit better, he was surprised to find. If nothing else, the look on her face when he’d finished his recount made it entirely worth it.

Steph looked as though she wanted to hunt the guy down and barge into his apartment just to smack him upside the helmet. Her head was tilted, brows drawn together, and mouth open slightly; overall it was a look that screamed:  _ what the actual flying-fuck? _

“So he seriously yelled at you for wanting to leave?”

“I mean, I yelled a bit, too but…”

“Eh, sounds like he deserved it.” She finally took a hefty gulp of cocoa to punctuate her statement, but made a face when she realized it was ice cold. She swallowed it anyway, and smacked her lips in distaste afterward.

“How was that?” He smirked, eying his own empty mug on the table. He’d finished it ages ago, taking sips when he wasn’t sure what to say--either second-guessing himself or pausing to watch her reaction.

On several occasions, he’d reached for it out of habit only to find it still empty, and took to picking at one of his bandages instead just to keep his hands busy. It helped him think, and kept him just distracted/occupied enough to get through the more difficult parts of the story and memories. At some point, Steph had slyly and without pause passed him a fidget toy (turns out she had a fuck ton of them lying around her place because she, too, hated being idle; she also probably had some bad habits when it came to fidgeting so these provided a safer outlet for her pent up restlessness… he could relate). He was only now realizing that that’s what he was holding, and shot her a quick, sheepish smile to say  _ thanks _ .

She pretended not to notice and pushed her cocoa away. “I’ve had worse,” she joked.

“Same,” he snorted, not really sure where to take the conversation from there.

As though sensing the end of the tangent they’d come to, something shifted in Steph’s expression quicker than Dick could make sense of it, and her tone grew serious once more.

She bit her lip, choosing her next words carefully as though taking a gamble on something. “He reminds me of my brother.”

Dick was suddenly on edge. He didn't know how good Steph’s relationship with her brother was, and didn’t want to overstep his bounds if it was a sensitive topic. So he spoke cautiously. “How so?” 

Luckily she didn’t seem too bothered by the question, and a soft smile tugged the corners of her mouth upward, almost like she was expecting it. “He’s a bit of an asshole; impulsive, standoffish, acts before he thinks,” she paused to gauge his reaction. “...Afraid of emotions he isn’t used to feeling.”

“What do you mean?” Dick asked curiously, if not a little bit skeptical. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going, but was at least willing to hear what she had to say. (He could use some insight and advice; that’s usually why he came to her.)

“Sounds to me like he was worried,” she smirked at the look of incredulity that her words sparked.

“Worr-- _ What? _ ” Dick choked on his own disbelief. “Are we still talking about the same person?”

“Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear, or do you want me to give you my honest opinion?” There was no heat to her words, and she wasn’t trying to get a rise out of him. She wasn’t being unkind, she was being blunt. Calling out his bullshit to get to the heart of the problem, what this was actually about.

He deflated, slouching back into his chair, and averted his eyes. Her words were a slap to the wrist (one he didn’t realize he needed but was grateful for nonetheless), and brought him out of his own head.

“Well, worried or no, he’s still an asshole,” he grumbled half-heartedly. At that, she held her hands up placatingly.

“I’m not saying you should forgive him for being a self-righteous prick— he seriously needs to get a cap on that temper of his; I swear, zero to a hundred…” Suddenly, Dick got the feeling that she wasn’t talking about Red Hood anymore, but before he could dwell on it she continued. “I’ll admit, in that respect, he does kind of suck—”

“ _ Totally _ sucks.”

“Just… keep in mind that he saved your ass,” something in her voice changed, something that made Dick sit up straight and notice the tight, pained look in her eye. “I wouldn’t feel right overlooking the fact that he saved your life. You’d likely not be here right now if not for him.”

Dick felt resigned, she was right. And boy, he would do everything in his power to never see that heartbroken look on her face ever again.

Still, one question had been burning at the forefront of his thoughts for days, and he needed to voice it. “But then  _ why _ ? Why would he be worried about some stupid, injured kid?”

She gave him a hard look, so he amended his word choice. “Fine, some  _ random _ , injured kid. You realize he’s literally a vigilante, right?”

She smirked. “And you  _ literally _ just answered your own question.”

“I guess,” he sighed and leaned back into the chair.

They sat in silence for a moment—not awkward, but certainly tense—each caught up in a sea of their own thoughts. Then Steph stood up without warning, snapping him out of his reverie.

“I’m hungry,” she clapped her hands once, cutting off the conversation (and their thoughts) there. “Pasta?”

His stomach grumbled at the mention of food, and he nodded sheepishly. Pasta was his favorite, especially the way Steph made it. (His favorite dish used to be his mami’s  _ bœuf bourguignon _ , but he tried not to think about that anymore.) “Do you need any help?”

“Nah, I got it,” she insisted kindly, already stepping into the kitchen. “You relax. Remote’s on the mantle if you wanna put something on.”

Distractedly, he stood to reach for the remote, and switched the television on with a  _ click _ . His mind was far away, though, ruminating on what she’d said about Hood.

Dick couldn’t deny any longer that he needed help. It killed a part of himself to admit that (even just to himself), but this last incident, the one that very nearly got him killed, was proof that he was in over his head, and he knew it. That was probably what got him caught in the first place; he was inexperienced, had no means to defend himself, and no one to have his back if things went south (and things  _ always  _ went south).

As Steph continually liked to remind him, he wouldn’t be of any use to anyone if he were dead, and this personal crusade he’d taken upon himself was proving too much for him to handle--too much to handle alone, that is. He needed help from someone with the skills, experience, and resources to get the job done.

And it pained Dick to admit that the only one who fit the bill was Red Hood.

There was no doubt in his mind that Red Hood was a self-righteous bastard with his head stuck up his own ass, but not even Dick could deny that the guy could get shit done when he wanted to. (He did, after all, have a fierce reputation of taking no prisoners, so to speak, when it came to the real bad bad-guys. He could definitely use Hood’s apparent sympathy for the underprivileged to his advantage.)

It was time to throw caution to the wind. What else did he have to lose? He was a broke orphan living in the bad part of town under the thumb of a ruthless crime organization that may or may not want him dead. (He tried not to think of Steph and her kind acceptance, Cass and her quiet understanding… He had to remind himself that he was going to do this for them, and for people like them all across the city.)

If he could get someone like Hood-- ruthless, well-known, in possession of proper equipment, and with plenty of experience under his belt--on his side to back him up, as much as their last encounter had left a bad taste in his mouth, well… Dick was just now realizing that the vigilante might be his only option left. Certainly the only option he could see having even an iota of a chance at gaining any headway.

Maybe that’s really what he’d come to Steph for; not because she’d back him up on hating the guy, but because she’d give him that nudge he’d needed to convince himself that it was worth it. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Steph knew it, too. (He wouldn’t put it past her; she was a genius, and at this point probably knew Dick better than he knew himself.)

Dick had made his mind up, hand already twisting the front doorknob, but he couldn’t help but hesitate. Did he really want to do this?

He glanced back at the stack of bills next to their coffee table (beckoning but unable to be paid), at Cass’s closed bedroom door (studying hard for college classes she could barely afford), Steph in the kitchenette making his favorite dinner (despite the fact that their fridge wasn’t even fully stocked), at the brace on his knee and stitches on his arm (from an unpleasant but well-meaning stranger)… if only to reaffirm that what he was about to do was necessary. That this was his final option, that he was out of ideas and truly desperate enough to do it.

Yes. He was certain, and there was no going back now.

So, even though his leg begged for him to sit back down, and his stomach ached for a real home-cooked meal, Dick grabbed his shoes and slipped out the front door, closing it as quietly as he could behind him.

*

“He left,” Cass appeared, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Stephanie sighed, not surprised in the slightest. She had a Tupperware container empty and ready before she’d even started cooking. “I know.”

“You should have told him.”

Without word, Steph handed her a bowl of pasta (no sauce, just how she liked it), another “I know” going unspoken but heard between them. Cass watched her dish a small portion into a bowl for herself, then spoon the rest into the plastic container with care.

Steph put the now empty pan into the sink with some soap to soak, and Cass snapped the Tupperware shut for her before placing it on the top shelf in the fridge, so that Steph could grab it and take it over to the deli tomorrow evening. It was a practiced system, one that she didn’t quite understand but respected and gladly took part in anyway.

Stephanie joined her at the doorway, pasta bowl in hand. Cass observed her with a sideways glance. (The television was still playing, but neither made a move to turn it off.)

“He’ll find out,” she warned, knowing full well that this wouldn’t change her friend’s mind in the slightest. “He’ll probably hate you.”

“Probably,” Steph agreed easily.

Cass could see well-disguised regret in the tension of her shoulders, but said nothing of it. She took a small bite of pasta, and Steph followed suit, prolonging the moment. They were quiet for a minute; comfortable, but with something buzzing in the air between and around them. She fought the urge to bounce on her toes, the alluring anticipation for whatever was coming next sweet on her tongue.

She had a penchant for knowing when something important was about to step into their lives and turn their entire world on its head. Sometimes it was a place, sometimes it was an event; this time it was a person. And if ever there were going to be another, life-altering thing that would set their family onto a new, uncharted course—this boy was it.

Cass knew in every fiber of her being that Steph had found the next contender, and she had an inkling that Steph knew it, too.

“You’re planning something.” It wasn’t a question.

Steph remained silent, but moved her gaze to the living room window, distant but reachable. Cass followed suit, already knowing the answers to all of her unasked questions just by looking at her companion, reading her words and thoughts through the subtle way she held herself, the way she tapped her index finger on her bowl and didn’t move to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Something dangerous. Reckless. Dumb.”

“Yep,” Steph replied without missing a beat, and their eyes met, a foretelling gleam in her eye. “Wanna help?”

Cass grinned. “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages:  
> Cass - 27  
> Steph - 26  
> Jason - 20  
> Dick - 13
> 
> I love Cass, she's the best! Happy holidays <3


End file.
